What the Dead Leave Behind
by Elena Kaye
Summary: "Each moment that he sat there, John had to remember. Remember the mocking comments and the requests to walk across the room to hand the other man something that had been within arm's reach and all the clients that had walked in, begging for the assistance of Britain's, no, the world's best (and only) consulting detective. And it hurt like hell. "


Often, re-living heartbreaking memories is almost worse than the original experience. There are some people who would argue that nothing is worse than the very first time that someone close to you dies, or your partner decides to break it off because they found someone better, or you find out that you've just lost a huge sum of money and are now terribly in debt. John Watson could tell 'em otherwise.

After the death of Sherlock Holmes, the former soldier spent hours and hours sitting on the floor of his flat, simply staring motionlessly at what had formerly been the living space that had been the home of Holmes. Each moment that he sat there, John had to remember. Remember the mocking comments and the requests to walk across the room to hand the other man something that had been within arm's reach and all the clients that had walked in, begging for the assistance of Britain's, no, the world's best (and only) consulting detective. And it hurt like hell.

Because it wasn't just those few last minutes, those precious final minutes that began with a phone call and ended in a fall. It was every moment John and Sherlock had ever shared, and every moment that could never be shared again.

People kept telling John that it wasn't healthy to sit around all day surrounded by the belongings of a dead man. It seemed that everyone, even Anderson, though it would be best if John sold some of the items Sherlock had owned, and threw away what no one in their right mind would buy. He just wanted to reply -though he didn't, as he felt it would be childish- that he _couldn't _get rid of any of Sherlock's things because he simply _couldn't _be dead. So Watson sat amongst the possessions of his dead best friend, wishing he could just stop caring.

It was Mrs. Hudson who finally forced, or rather, "strongly recommended" that John take a short trip away from the memories that haunted 221B Baker Street. The landlady pushed him to, at the very least, walk over to a local park and have a short change of scenery. "Have a breath of fresh air, it's what he would've wanted," she had urged, leading him down the stairs. As if she knew exactly what someone as unpredictable as Sherlock Holmes would have wanted. Still, John allowed himself to follow her advice, and walked with his hands in his pockets in the direction of his destination.

His arrival at the park only brought another wave of ache to his struggling heart. The only empty bench was the one that had been the place where it all started. The place where at what had seemed like lifetimes ago, John Watson had first been told of the existence of the very peculiar man who went by the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Seeing the bench made it hard for John to get air into his lungs. It made him want to scream and pound his fists against the pavement, but just like he did in the flat nowadays, John simply stared at the bench and remembered. He wasn't aware of how long he stood there, silent and still, because time didn't seem to move when he was lost in the memories that Sherlock had left behind.

_Sherlock._

John blinked several times and shook his head. No, he hadn't really- he had only been thinking about him. That was why he had seen the back of a very familiar-looking head in the crowd of people walking down the streets.

No, there it was again. John's heart fled to his throat.

He didn't consciously make the decision to start running. Suddenly, he was moving quickly, flying into a group of strangers making their way to wherever they were heading. He bumped into a number of other bodies but John barely took note of it. He was getting closer and closer to the tall figure in a tweed coat, barely believing what his eyes were showing him. He reached out his hand, pulling the shoulder of the person so that they were forced to turn and look at John. Bright green eyes looked cheerfully at the person who had grabbed him.

"You okay, mate?" the young man asked, looking down at the shorter male.

John bent over slightly, trying to catch his breath. "No, sorry, you just- I thought you were someone I knew," he gasped, barely keeping the disappointment from seeping into his voice.

"Ah, s'alright. Hey- aren't you that bachelor Watson bloke?"

John didn't answer. He was already walking away, remembering a time when that wouldn't have hurt so much, and remembering why it did now.


End file.
